


It's My...

by Defnotmeyo



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 01:16:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10911327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defnotmeyo/pseuds/Defnotmeyo
Summary: There was A LOT going through Mulder's head at the end of Never Again.





	It's My...

“Yes, but it’s my…”

It’s your what, Fox? Your work? Your files, that you worked your ass off to get reopened? Because she was just assigned, right? It’s not like she hasn’t lost three months of her life. Not like she hasn’t lost a sister. Not like you’ve noticed that her brother doesn’t call her as much anymore - her mother, either.

But it’s your work. And why the hell can’t she understand? You’re the one missing your sister. You’re the one who’s family betrayed him. And you’ve been fighting this fight since you were a child.

She got brothers and a sister, Christmases and birthdays, all the holidays in between. You got confused religious messages from your parents. You didn’t get presents after Samantha was gone. You never saw a Thanksgiving turkey or Christmas ham after that, again. 

She got to watch Mommy and Daddy slow dancing around folding chairs on the lawn during the Fourth of July and you got to watch Pops go to work on a holiday and Mom pretend that two bottles of wine in a night were better than a six or twelve pack. 

It doesn’t matter that her sister got ripped away… well of course it matters but not like your history does. She lost her sister too, but you lost your sister more right? Longer?

It’s your what, Fox? You’re life, too? You’re right. It is.

You’ve sacrificed everything to those gray file-cabinet gods you know as the X-files. Everything. You’ve sacrificed your marriage. You’ve been gunshot twice. She hasn’t. Yeah she was gone for three months but she doesn’t really hold the scars like you do, does she? She doesn’t have the jagged tear from her hip-line to her thigh like you do. She doesn’t have the wound through her shoulder – that she fucking put there – does she?

The last time you fucked, got laid, had sex, whatever you want to term it – here, let’s make it a gentler term since you’re a gentleman – the last time you made love, she was gone. Apparently she goes out and fucks when she wants. Where she wants and with who she wants.

And it’s the with who that driving you particularly crazy, right? Because you kind of think that maybe if Ed Jerse wasn’t completely off his rocker, he might be a little bit better than you. He was certainly more stable, outwardly, despite the failed marriage. He was certainly suaver, getting her to open up to him. He was certainly at least as good looking as you, a little more ripped, a little bulkier. 

That goads you, doesn’t it? Your expertise in her love interests has enforced the idea that you are far superior physically. She dates old guys and boring newsmen for fuck’s sake. You know you’re more intelligent, more attractive, than they are.   
Jerse though? You’re certainly more intelligent and attractive. Right?

It’s your what, Fox? 

Failure in leadership and supervision? Because it sure as hell seems like it right about now, right? You are her supervisor. Yes, you agree in some - in most - respects that you’re not her superior, but you are her supervisor. You’re supposed to guide her, mentor her, develop her, and nurture her success. 

This goes deeper than that, though. Doesn’t it? Because you’re sitting there, lips pursed and jaw tight, and you have no idea how to complete this sentence in a way that doesn’t reveal just a little too much of yourself, or get you slapped with a workplace climate complaint.

It’s your what, Fox?

Because this is the one that you absolutely don’t want to throw out there, isn’t it?

Yes, but it’s my feelings that are hurt. It’s my chest that makes it difficult to breath when I hear the name Ed or Jerse. It’s my fucking life that I’ve sacrificed over and over and over again for you. It’s me.

Me. Me. Me.

Jesus, Fox. You really are as bad as they say you are, aren’t you? You are a sorry son of a bitch, you know that?

Mulder clenches his jaw and closes his eyes, trying to shut off his internal monologue. Scully continues to direct her challenging gaze his way. The room is silent, and her chair deathly loud, as she backs up and dismisses herself. Door opened, door closed, table please for an office of one.

Me was the operative word there. “Yes, but it’s me.”

It’s me, Scully. Who lost his shit when you went missing for three months. Who didn’t function. Who couldn’t function. Who fucked a girl and then fucked a case and then fucked a promise to himself to find you. It’s me.

It’s me, Scully. That guy who’s made no secret that when you go full nerd, I go full hard. That when you raise that eyebrow and challenge me to the ends of science and mysticism, I am never more intellectually aroused. That I love that argument, that defiance from you.

Whoa… Love is a strong word.

But it’s me, Scully. Me that would rather put a bullet in himself that you. 

It’s me. And how am I not important enough to you, that when you fuck away your problems you fuck that guy? I think I’ve made it clear I’m open to the possibility. I don’t get it. 

No, Fox. No, you probably haven’t made that clear. 

And what the hell do you suspect she is going to do with a guy like you, anyway? She’d fuck and then fuck you my friend. We’re a little better off this way, I think.

Mulder’s conscience continues to pour on. He slides down in his seat. Taking the beratement. Shit, he deserves it.

The office door swings open and Scully pops her head back in. Her voice has softened, and she sounds apologetic.

“Mulder, I’ll see you Monday. Thank you… for coming to the hospital. Next lunch is on me,” she offers him a wane smile. She’s back out the door before he can respond, and he hears the elevator ding as it picks her up.

Mulder opens his top desk drawer, looking for nothing, but also looking for something to slam shut.

Yes. Yes, Scully. It’s my life too because I’d do anything to keep you in it. To keep you here at my desk.

It’s my life too because I’d tear anyone apart if they hurt you, and if you don’t believe me, ask Ed how his face felt against a metal table in a cold interrogation room.

It’s my life too because there’s been a uh, well let’s just say there are big parts of me that want you in it.

It’s my life too because I live for your skeptical ass eyebrow every morning.

It’s my life too, because fuck. I think. I think I love you.


End file.
